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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28133046">A Court of Shadow and Stone</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/starwarringavengers/pseuds/starwarringavengers'>starwarringavengers</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Azriel is kinky af but we already knew that, Bad Jokes, Elain and Azriel are BFFs, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Smut, I just wanted to write Azriel finding a mate, I love him okay, Mates, POV Azriel (ACoTaR), Trauma, and they were MATES, let him be happy, mentions of not nice things, mentions of trauma, mostly just fluff and smut with some thinly veiled plot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 14:40:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,721</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28133046</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/starwarringavengers/pseuds/starwarringavengers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Azriel x OC Lucia<br/>Raised in an Illyrian camp, Luciana is the secret bastard daughter of infamous camp leader Devlon, and princess of the Dawn Court, Shanna (OC). Lucia, unknown by the rest of the Night Court and it's High Lord and Lady, ends up right upon their doorstep after suffering the terrible wrath of her father. After repressing her strength for decades, Lila finally finds a place that she can stretch both her light and her wings - and be loved, if the High Lord's spymaster has anything to say about it.</p><p>An excuse for me to write fluffy Inner Circle and smutty Azriel. Proceed with caution, you will encounter both banter and banging headboards. </p><p>All characters and places belong to Sarah J. Maas - I'm just having fun with them.</p><p>This is cross-posted on Wattpad!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Amren/Varian (ACoTaR), Azriel &amp; Rhysand (ACoTaR), Azriel (ACoTaR)/Original Character(s), Azriel (ACoTaR)/Original Female Character(s), Elain Archeron &amp; Azriel, Elain Archeron/Lucien Vanserra, Feyre Archeron &amp; Rhysand, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Nesta Archeron/Cassian</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>104</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Wound</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello everyone!! I have been MIA from ao3 for some time but here I am, outside of the Star Wars fandom for once, to bring you a random fanfic with my favorite shadowy bat. This is just an excuse for me to have fun in between some original works that are taking up my time. Anyway, enjoy the fluff and smut!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Life at the river house was quiet. A different type of quiet than the House of the Wind had been. Something softer, more like home.</p><p>Azriel knew that Feyre and Ressina put painstaking detail into every room in the house, including their bedrooms - his and Mor's and Cassian's and Amen's. And her sister's. It was as if she designed everything with that beautiful artist's eye to make sure that they were comfortable, at home, always. No matter where in the house they stepped foot.</p><p>Feyre admitted to Azriel weeks after they'd all started to move in that she had the most difficult time with Azriel's room, but he couldn't begin to imagine why. She'd painted the walls herself in a shade of calming, dark blue, in a way that made it seem as though there were stars sliding to the ground from the ceiling. It's unbelievably homey, cozy - and even if Azriel <em>had </em>hated it, which he vehemently <em>does not</em>, he would have never told her. He loves it. Loves the space that he has to himself, and loves even more that it's in a house full of his family.</p><p>The balcony faces the mountains, a balcony big enough to take flight from.</p><p>Yes, Azriel loves the River Estate.</p><p>This morning, though, Azriel wakes up to a decidedly not very calming feeling skittering through the air. With a grunt, he plants his feet on the ground and grabs his jacket on the way out of the room, tugging it on as he hears the sound of Feyre's voice fill the grand foyer.</p><p>"How <em>dare </em>you come into my home -"</p><p>Every thought in Azriel's brain heads right towards ripping apart whomever it might be that's making his High Lady scream like that so early in the morning. And it has nothing to do with the need for beauty rest that he found anger flaring in his chest. Cassian nearly beats him to it, rounding the corner and forgoing the staircase entirely in favor of simply jumping to the ground, landing with a loud thump on the foyer floor.</p><p>Below him, Azriel can see Devlon - and his blood instantly ran cold. Cassian may be commander and it may entitle him to dislike Devlon for a million different reasons, but Cassian had a place in Devlon's camp, in this world. Azriel didn't. And never would.</p><p>His shadows reach, spread from his body and out into the foyer, testing the air and hitting Devlon - and whoever is behind him.</p><p>"<em>What is going on?" </em>Rhys's growl is vicious, a High Lord's might behind the words as Azriel makes it down to the bottom step and sees Devlon with his teeth bared at his <em>High Lady.</em></p><p>"Back away," Azriel demands, sending a shadow skittering along the floor to flick menacingly at Devlon, who promptly jumps out of the way. The person behind him is revealed, and Azriel forgets to breathe - or keep his face blank - for a long moment.</p><p>Blood is gushing from the back of the woman lying crumpled on the floor, staining the white hall with red.</p><p>"<em>Get out of my home," </em>Feyre demands, the words laced with coldness, with fury. Devlon stalks right back out the front door, leaving the woman in his wake.</p><p>Everyone goes silent. Even Amren, who has since made her way out of her room, is staring at the scene unfolding with uncharacteristic unease.</p><p>"Hey," Cassian says quietly, leaning down to the woman and trying to offer a hand that she shrinks right back from.</p><p>Rhys turns to Feyre, to Azriel, looking perhaps for some sort of idea that either of them may have. Azriel just shakes his head. Cassian backs away a moment later, looking equally as lost as the rest of them must feel, as Azriel knows he feels.</p><p>With a breath, he steps forward and takes Cassian's place, sliding down to the ground and onto his knees and letting his unseen shadows assess the damage of the faceless woman's back.</p><p>"Call Madja," Azriel grits out, the phantom pain of those wounds sliding along his wings as if they were his own. Rhys disappears a moment later without a word. He can see beneath the woman's hair that her ear is pointed - Fae, then, and likely High Fae, based off of the particular thrum of power that he can feel from her.</p><p>Finally, the woman lifts her face and -</p><p>When her eyes meet Azriel, the world goes spinning. Something about the beauty, about the hurt in those golden eyes, makes Azriel reach out his hand to her.</p><p>"Tell me what happened," he asks quietly, a gentle request. "Tell me how we can help you."</p><p>She slides her hand into his.</p><p>Memories take him by storm as she sends them to him, as she gives him over the events of the last few hours. Pain, so much of it, and horrendous fear. Everything becomes clear as he sees, as he looks into her face and finds the similarities, finds the connections -</p><p>Rhys returns with a click of shoes against the floor, Madja trailing him.</p><p>"This is Madja," Azriel explains quietly, still sorting through those memories. "She'll help you."</p><p>The girl gets to her feet as Azriel keeps a hold of her hand and tries to remind himself to breath, that the pain laced through her bones and memories is not his - even if it feels so real, so palpable. She stumbles, but he's there to catch her, her skin cold in his hands as he keeps her upright until Madja can take his place.</p><p>He turns back to Rhys the moment Madja leads the girl away, and finds his High Lord and High Lady staring at him with interest and worry.</p><p>"She's Illyrian," Azriel states, "And High Fae."</p><p>"Who?"</p><p>"You're not going to like it," Azriel tells Rhys, conscious of how loud his voice might sound, what she might overhear. Rhys only raises a dark eyebrow. "She's Devlon's bastard. And her mother," Azriel sucks in a breath. "Her mother is Shanna, the Princess of the Dawn Court. Thesan's sister."</p><p>If Azriel thought that he'd seen shock on Rhys's face before, he'd clearly been mistaken, because the High Lord's mouth drops open almost comically, Feyre's along with it. Cassian swears, and Amren - delightful Amren - just starts to laugh.</p><p>"What happened to her? Why did Devlon bring her here and <em>why, why </em>did we not know the he had a daughter?" Rhys asks, as Azriel begins to shake his head.</p><p>"I don't know," he admits, "But believe me when I say I am going to shake every person who ever hid this from us <em>upside down."</em></p><p>"What does darling little Shanna want with <em>Devlon?" </em>Amren asks, crossing her arms over her chest and cocking a hip.</p><p>"What <em>doesn't </em>Devlon want with anyone who will look at him?" Cassian huffs in something like annoyance.</p><p>"Nevermind that," Feyre snaps, her eyes turning soft as she looks at Az. "What happened to her."</p><p>Azriel almost doesn't want to say it out loud.</p><p>But they're all staring at him.</p><p>"She's like you, Rhys," he begins to explain, "Can get rid of her wings at will. Devlon tried to marry her off, but she fought him and they tried to clip her wings but since she can vanish them, it looks as though they just tried to cut into the muscle where her wings might have been."</p><p>More swearing from Cassian; cold fury sweeping into both the violet eyes of Rhysand and the blue-gray of Feyre.</p><p>Azriel feels strangely out of sorts. Like looking her in the eyes had done something to his insides, turned them into mush or just twisted him up, just from that look.</p><p>"What else?" Feyre asks, as if she can read Azriel's mind and knows he doesn't want to say. Azriel opens his mouth. Closes it. <em>"What else?" </em>His High Lady asks.</p><p>The look on his face must be enough, because power begins to ripple off of Rhys, shadow and starlight in the form of pure, unfiltered anger.</p><p>Azriel doesn't have to tell them what Devlon had the camp do to her. They already know.</p><p>"Stay here with her," Rhys instructs Amren. "We're going to pay Devlon a visit."</p><p>✴✴✴✴✴</p><p>On the way to the Illyrian mountains, Azriel quietly explains how the woman - Shanna and Devlon's daughter - came to be in Velaris.</p><p>She'd tried to winnow to the city, and Devlon had grabbed onto her, decided that if she wanted to behave that way, then he'd take her directly to the High Lord and let him deal with her, as he <em>seems to like dealing with errant women. </em>Feyre had growled at that, some feral protectiveness flashing over her that Azriel has only ever seen directed at her sisters's and her family.</p><p>He supposes that one of the best things about his High Lady is how fiercely she protects those she loves, and those she's never even met. The girl in their foyer might not be family, but Azriel knows that if <em>anyone </em>had shown up on that doorstep asking for Feyre's help, she'd gladly drop everything to give it.</p><p>Now, dressed in their Illyrian leathers, they winnow from the sky and directly into Devlon's camp. Cassian takes point, allowing Rhysand and Feyre and Azriel to drop back. After all, the camps are technically under his command, even if Rhys is High Lord. And no one needs the reminder of what Rhys can do when he's angry. Cassian, though - Cassian is a different type of feral.</p><p>Azriel tries to stop the shaking of his hands, the feeling of dread that always takes over at being back at this camp, at having to deal with the centuries-old males and their backwards ways and their disgust of him. Cassian practically drags Devlon away by the ear, and Rhys quickly pulls the names and the faces of the males who had hurt that woman from Devlon's head - and promptly sends them to Azriel.</p><p><em>Luciana, </em>he learns her name is.</p><p>An enchantress. A witch.</p><p><em>Little Lucia, </em>the males not-so-affectionately refer to her as. Azriel hears her screams when his shadows pluck the memory of them from the heads of the males who hurt her. And at Rhys's instruction, Azriel makes them all bleed.</p><p>And doesn't find it in himself to feel bad about it. </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Shadow</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lucia's eyes snap open the moment she's conscious enough to smell the air. It's not the smell of an Illyrian camp, not even the comforting, clean-laundry smell of a home.</p><p>It's the scent of a river, of starlight and sea and citrus. Night-chilled mist and cedar. She lifts her head, and promptly lets it drop back down when the weight of it sends pain from her neck all the way down her back.</p><p>Her back, where her wings will have to be summoned through scarred and broken skin. The thought of feeling their weight is equally exciting and positively dreadful, knowing that flying will perhaps be the worst pain she's ever felt, after what they did to her. Cut deep into tissue and muscle.</p><p>There's someone in the room with her. A consciousness almost seems to skitter along hers, like someone is testing her mind to see if she's awake. But...not with <em>another </em>mind. With a whisper of something. A shadow.</p><p>Fighting back a groan, Lucia sits up and surveys her surroundings. She's in a small medical room, likely one inside of a house given its' size, and is lying on a cot with her knees and various cuts bandaged.</p><p>She finds the reason for the shadowy brush against her mind.</p><p>The High Lord's Spymaster is staring at her from across the room, arms crossed over a broad chest, and a surprisingly soft look in his hazel eyes.</p><p>Lucia tips her head, since she very well cannot get off of this bed to bow. Shadows twine around his feet when she lifts her gaze, watching enraptured as they seem to slide around his body like water, like some sort of sunlight. Dark and airy. Softer, than she'd ever imagined.</p><p>She'd heard whispers about him at the camp, he and the general both. That they were handsome, that he was terrifying, frightening - he doesn't seem that way now.</p><p>"Hello, Lucia," he greets, uncrossing his arms to let his hands drop to his sides. Scarred hands.</p><p>"My Lord," she mutters, and is surprised to hear him huff out a laugh.</p><p>"None of that. How do you feel?" He asks, stepping closer to her, carefully, as if he doesn't want to frighten her. Lila nods a little bit, swallowing past a lump in her throat.</p><p>"Better," she admits, wincing as she goes to move and try to swing herself off of the bed. "I'm sorry for intruding. I -"</p><p>"I know what happened," the spymaster says, voice soft and cool. Low. It sends a shiver down her spine. Lila lifts her eyes to meet his again.</p><p>"I never meant to involve the High Lord or High Lady," Lucia tells him honestly, softly. "I only wanted to get out of that camp."</p><p>"I don't blame you," he says, sliding into a seat nearby and resting his forearms on his bent knees. Lucia's eyes travel over his face, his wings, the shadows that pool at his shoulders. They seem to respond to her eyes, as if they know, as if <em>he </em>knows, exactly where she's looking at all time. Her eyes drop to his laced fingers, and the shadows gather there, as if they could shield his scarred hands from view.</p><p>Lucia opens her mouth to apologize for her lingering gaze, when the door to the room bursts open, and in walks the High Lady of the Night Court.</p><p>She hadn't been quite awake or felt strong enough to stand when the spymaster had come into the room, but Lucia grits her teeth and climbs down from the bed with the intention of kneeling before Feyre - only to have two pairs of hands instantly rush to hold her up. Lucia lets out a sound like a cry as pain laces from her heels all the way up to her head, like they'd pulled out her veins when they'd cut into her back.</p><p>"Please, sit," Feyre says gently, and Lucia can't help the shame she feels as she winces.</p><p>"High Lady," she starts to say, dipping her head in the same way she had when she saw the spymaster, but the High Lady's gentle fingers press under her chin and urge her to look up.</p><p>"Lila," she says, "Please, call me Feyre. How are you feeling?"</p><p>Gods, this is more attention she's <em>ever </em>been shown by anyone regarding her well being, and the thought alone makes tears spring to her eyes as she grips Feyre's elbows, steadying herself.</p><p>"Better now, Feyre," she says, trying the pretty name out on her tongue. She's never spoken it before this moment, even though she knew it. "Thank you for helping me. I apologize for my father's behavior. I'm sure you know that I only meant to winnow to Velaris, and not directly onto your doorstep." Lucia offers her an apologetic smile as Feyre waves a hand.</p><p>"Nevertheless, we're glad you're here and safe. I am sorry for what you've had to endure," Feyre says, and Lucia can see in her eyes that she means it.</p><p>"I don't want to abuse your hospitality -"</p><p>"You're not going anywhere," The High Lady's voice turns serious. "You're in pain and your magic is nowhere near strong enough to winnow. Not to mention that I will not, under <em>any </em>circumstances, be allowing you to return to that camp."</p><p>Dumbstruck, Lucia finds the shadowsinger's eyes and meets his amused gaze. "I heard you were nice," Lila says, "But I didn't know you were <em>this </em>nice."</p><p>The spymaster lets out a huff of laughter, and Feyre's smile grows to brighten her whole face.</p><p>"She would adopt all of Velaris if we only let her," the spymaster says, tucking those powerful arms once again across his chest.</p><p>"None of you <em>let </em>me do anything, and if I want to adopt every damn orphan in this city, <em>I will," </em>Feyre jokes - but Lucia is fairly certain she's not kidding. "Lucia, please allow me to escort you upstairs. You must be hungry."</p><p>✴✴✴✴✴</p><p>Azriel doesn't have any clue how he made it so far in life without making an absolute fool of himself 95% of the time. The moment he'd seen her, he once again hadn't been able to speak. Maybe it was the light that seemed to surround her, the brightness in her eyes despite the pain that lingered. Regardless, Azriel resolves to keep his mouth shut and follows behind his High Lady and Lucia towards the dining room.</p><p>Her hair spills over her shoulders and across the white shirt she wears, where he can just faintly see the bulge of bandages that Madja had placed on her back and instructed them to help her change every few days. Though, she said, between being half-Illyrian and half-High Fae, she'd likely heal remarkably quickly. He'd seen her wincing in pain though, in that med room, and he'd also seen the way those amber-golden eyes lingered on absolutely every piece of him, at his shadows and at his scars, and hadn't shied away. Regardless of the pain she might be in, her eyes are alert enough to warrant making him blush a little bit when she looks at him.</p><p>Azriel watches as Feyre places a steadying hand on Lucia's back, gently guiding her towards the dining room, where he can hear the others talking already. An intense need to protect her comes over him, phantom and strange, and Azriel finds himself tensing at the sound of Cassian's laughter as Feyre escorts Lila into the room. <em>Cassian, </em>of all people - his <em>brother. </em>He wants to protect this girl he doesn't know from his own family.</p><p>They step into the room, and the feeling returns full force when he watches how Cassian - and <em>Mor - </em>slide their eyes down Lucia. Sizing her up. For reasons not based on fighting. Though, Azriel supposes, maybe fucking and fighting are in some ways similar.</p><p>He doesn't feel that way. How artless it would be, to treat it like that.</p><p>Lucia offers a small smile to all of them, letting Feyre guide her into a seat even though Azriel is beginning to be pretty sure that the timidness is an act. Or, if not an act, then she's just dealing with trauma. There's a storm in those eyes that Azriel knows will turn into a tempest if she wants them to.</p><p>Rhys is the first one to stand when they enter the room, and he's the first one besides Feyre to offer his hand - and his sympathy - to Lucia.</p><p>"What did you do to him?" Lucia asks quietly, upon hearing that they'd paid Devlon and his Illyrian camp a visit. Rhys's eyes flick to Azriel, a silent plea to take over the explanation.</p><p>"We spoke to him," Azriel says simply, sending Rhysand a glance that's something along the lines of, <em>not now.</em></p><p>That was, of course, not all that they did.</p><p><em>Rhysand </em>had spoken - sternly - to Devlon. Azriel and Cassian had wreaked havoc on the mind of every male that had laid a hand on Lucia, ensuring that their orders and threats came across perfectly clear. Cassian's particular contempt for the situation was white-hot. Feyre, their darling High Lady - she punched Devlon square in his nose before stomping out of the cabin, growling about <em>dealing with him later. </em>And, <em>informing Shanna of this disastrous and disgusting behavior.</em></p><p>Azriel somewhat doubts that Shanna is even aware of what goes on in an Illyrian camp, let alone Devlon's camp. And he doesn't think that Lucia really wants her to know, either.</p><p>Feyre seats Lucia between herself and Elain, the two safest people at the table, undoubtedly. And Feyre's sweet sister immediately takes up conversation, introducing herself and her mate, soft voice coaxing a small smile out of Lucia as she listens to Elain explain that she designed the gardens of the house, and offers her a tour. Azriel feels a prick against the shields in his mind, and recognizes the cool, dark power as Rhys. He opens the metaphorical door for the High Lord, who even in his head, seems to stride into his conscious with the very same swagger he strides into a room.</p><p><em>You're staring, </em>Rhys informs him.</p><p><em>That's my job. </em>Azriel shoots back, but drops his gaze back to the food on his plate as he feels a flicker of amusement through Rhys.</p><p><em>Don't trust her already? </em>Rhys asks.</p><p><em>Don't trust Devlon, more like it, </em>Azriel supplies. <em>So no, not really. No fault of hers, but she has a shitty parent.</em></p><p>
  <em>If Feyre has anything to say about it, Lucia is going to be our houseguest. Not spy. Let her heal before you start questioning her.</em>
</p><p>Azriel tries not to smile. <em>Are you talking to me, or reminding yourself?</em></p><p>
  <em>Shove it, spymaster.</em>
</p><p>As Rhys retreats from his conscious, Azriel relaxes enough to enjoy lunch with his family, one eye on Lucia the whole time. </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Question</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Lucia had only visited Velaris a few times, when she was young, after one of the camp mothers had let slip the beauty of it, the wonder - Lucia had instantly become obsessed with the idea of such a city, full of art and music and life and laughter. So, when she got old enough and strong enough to winnow, it was the very first place she went.</p><p class="p1">Her first trip had been nearly 70 years ago. She’d gotten away with it a grand total of five times over the years, five trips, before Devlon dragged her back and forbade her from leaving 50-something years ago, as he had the moment she was old enough to understand him. He meant to keep her hidden away, to pretend as though he didn’t know her, wasn’t responsible for her. Since then, she’d gone back to her little cabin in the Illyrian mountains, doing everything she could to avoid her father’s wrath.</p><p class="p1">For someone who cared so little, he certainly liked to keep a leash on her.</p><p class="p1">The inciting incident of how she’d wound up in Velaris this time around was the worst day of her 87 year existence so far. Worse than the first years of Amarantha’s reign. Worse than the day she’d fought in the skies against Hybern.</p><p class="p1">Now though, as she walks with Mor and Feyre through Velaris, receiving a grand tour of the city by the High Lady and her third-in-command, Lucia feels like a little bit of her is finally healing, finally letting fear drop away and be replaced by peace. Mor - there had been a connection there, Lucia had felt it, the moment they’d locked eyes. Everyone had heard the story of Morrigan, both the truth-wielder and warrior, and the shunned female. Illyrian women worshiped her, for her gifts and for how she had come to be the High Lord and Lady’s third. Lucia understands why.</p><p class="p1">Despite her story, Mor is happy - light, loving, and everything that Lucia hopes that one day she can feel. If Mor could do it, so can she.</p><p class="p1">“Lucia,” Feyre says as the three of them walk along the river, coats draped over their arms as the sun turns the fall air into something uncomfortably mild. “Tell me what you like to do.”</p><p class="p1">Lucia glances at the High Lady, at her gray-blue eyes sparkling in the light of the sun glinting off the Sidra. “I like to make things,” she says, looking for the right words. “I make pottery. But at the camp I sometimes worked as a healer, and I like that too.”</p><p class="p1">“I suppose that Dawn Court blood comes in handy,” Mor says with a tip of her head, golden brows flicking up. Lucia nods.</p><p class="p1">“You should study under Madja, if you enjoy that,” Feyre says, “And I’ll take you to the Rainbow. We don’t have many potter’s shops, but perhaps you could fill the void.”</p><p class="p1">Lucia’s face heats as Feyre looks at her, lips quirked up in a sly smile that looks so much like her husband’s, Lucia wonders for a moment if they really are one in the same. “Perhaps,” Lucia says finally, averting her gaze from Feyre’s as they start towards one of the palaces.</p><p class="p1">“Either way,” Feyre begins, “You’re staying here. That is, if you want to.”</p><p class="p1">She adds the last part as an afterthought, as if she hadn’t considered at first if Lucia would <em>want </em>to go back to that camp. She smiles a little bit.</p><p class="p1">“I meant what I said,” Lucia tells her, “I don’t want to abuse your hospitality, my lady. Thank you for healing me, but I don’t want to intrude.” She’s already been here a week - staying in Feyre’s house, accepting everything that the High Lady insists upon giving her, and it already feels like too much.</p><p class="p1">“You’re not intruding,” Feyre says quickly. “Please, let us help you get settled somewhere. If here is where you’d like to be.”</p><p class="p1">“Good luck avoiding her help, Lucia,” Mor says, as they stop along the river to converse. “Her motherly instincts are going to roar until everyone in the world has a home.”</p><p class="p1">It’s said with such love, such admiration, that Lucia can’t stop the grin that slides across her face, matching Mor’s. Feyre rolls her eyes. But within that gaze, Lucia sees the truth: Feyre wants, genuinely, to help her. For the first time in her life, someone is looking out for her, not pushing her into a corner to be forgotten, like a shadow.</p><p class="p1">It’s that feeling, the familiar ache of being ignored that she never wants to feel again, that makes Lucia nod at the High Lady and say, “Thank you.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">✴✴✴✴✴</p><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p1">Azriel decides that after a week and a half, it’s time to - politely - corner Lucia.</p><p class="p1">Lucia, who has been a staple at their dinner table now for the past few nights, slowly coming out of her shell and moving much easier as her back heals. She’d been visibly - understandably - tense the first evening. Both from Rhys and Feyre’s overwhelming hospitality and no doubt from the soreness of her body. Azriel had watched her like a hawk until even <em>Elain </em>noticed, and kicked him under the table with a small foot. He’d backed off after that, frowning at his food and trying to understand why this raven-haired woman with golden eyes is now the only Gods damned thing he can think about.</p><p class="p1">Hopefully once he gets some answers out of her, it’ll pass.</p><p class="p1">He finds her outside on the balcony, half-seated on the railing in a huge white sweater and tailored trousers, slippers on her feet in lieu of shoes. Azriel approaches quietly, and sees her ears prick up almost imperceptibly as she realizes someone is close. He clears his throat to avoid startling her.</p><p class="p1">Those golden eyes whip around to find his, and he has the brief thought that perhaps she should have been part of the Autumn Court, since those eyes certainly look like crisp fallen leaves. But, there are Illyrian traits all over her - from her deep tan skin, to the dark hair, and even the eyes - as if the Illyrian’s hazel has been imbued with the glow of the Dawn Court.</p><p class="p1">“Hello,” she greets, sliding off of her balcony to place both feet once again on the ground. Azriel sees her eyes linger on his wings, and sees the flash of pain that crosses her face. No doubt she’s still too hurt to fly. It almost makes him want to offer to take her for a flight around the city, but he tamps the thought down and offers her a small smile.</p><p class="p1">He nods his head, stepping onto the balcony to greet her. “If you’re up for it, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”</p><p class="p1">Lucia’s eyes flutter for a moment, before she nods her head. “Of course,” she tells him, and Azriel allows her to lead them over to the small table on the balcony. She waves her hand and out of the glimmer, tea appears. She gestures to the cup that appears at his seat.</p><p class="p1">Tipping his head in a quiet motion for her to continue, she lifts the pot and out pours a dark amber liquid, the smell of vanilla and cinnamon filling his nostrils as she fills her own cup.</p><p class="p1">“So, spymaster,” Lucia starts to say, taking a dainty sip from her cup that almost surprises Azriel - for a woman raised in an Illyrian camp, she has manners almost as nice as Rhys’s mother. “What is it you want to ask me?”</p><p class="p1">A list of a million questions bubbles up, but he chooses the mildest one. “Could you tell me how Devlon managed to keep you hidden all these years?” Lucia takes another sip of her tea, taking in a deep breath as if to steady herself.</p><p class="p1">“I was born in the Dawn Court, obviously,” she says, with a little frown. “But my mother’s nurse brought me to Devlon the moment I could be taken away from her, in the dead of night. He spun a story about finding me in the woods, that I’d been left for dead, days old, and brought me back to the Illyrian camp as, I don’t know, a gesture of kindness. He dropped me off with one of the camp women, instructed her to take care of me, and gave her gold for her silence. As far as anyone knew, I wasn’t related to Devlon, wasn’t from anywhere. You can imagine his relief when he realized that I didn’t have wings - visible ones, anyway. When I later found out that I could summon them, he forbid me from using them.</p><p class="p1">“He didn’t let me train, so until I was old enough not to be under someone else’s care, I worked with the woman who watched me as a nurse. Mostly to the families in the camp, not the warriors. Then, I found odd jobs around the camp to earn my keep and stayed in a little cabin up in the mountains. There, I could fly - but only at night. I learned to winnow there, too.”</p><p class="p1">“But you were never trained?” Azriel asks quietly. She shakes her head.</p><p class="p1">“No, not technically. Not in a traditional sense,” she says, and a flash of something crosses those eyes that makes Azriel want to push further. “I watched <em>everything. </em>And I fought against Hybern, in that last fight. In the sky, with the rest of the Illyrians. My father was furious, but didn’t do anything about it, not when he needed the help.”</p><p class="p1">“You fought with us?” The words come out quiet, surprised.</p><p class="p1">Lucia nods, her golden eyes flicking up.</p><p class="p1">“Have you heard any whispers of dissent among Devlon’s warriors?” Azriel asks then.</p><p class="p1">Her eyes flash with something like annoyance. “Of course I have,” she tells him, as his stomach plummets with that information, though he already knew it. “But they’re sneaky. You know Devlon, better than me, probably - he shuts talk like that down. But people <em>are </em>still talking. They think it’s payback for their treatment of you and the High Lord and the General, that you sent them to the front lines last year.”</p><p class="p1">Last year. It had been over a year since the fight with Hybern, and peace is tense. Strained. Hanging by a thread, if Lucia’s information is anything to go off of.</p><p class="p1">Azriel nods, quiet, waiting for her to say more.</p><p class="p1">“The Blood Rite in the spring was a mess. So few warriors went, even fewer came back.”</p><p class="p1">He knows that. It had been a touchy week with everyone on edge, waiting to hear the results of the Rite from Devlon and the other camp leaders.</p><p class="p1">“And you?” Azriel finds himself asking. “You fought. What is your…observation, of it all?”</p><p class="p1">She looks surprised by the question, but after a moment, she just sips her tea to hide the smile on her face. “Are you concerned I’ll try to kill your High Lord in his sleep, spymaster?”</p><p class="p1">Azriel’s lips twitch with the beginning of a smile. “Can never be too careful,” he tells her.</p><p class="p1">Lucia searches his eyes. Honey, he realizes. They look like honey glittering in the sunlight. “My observation, spymaster, is that the High Lord and High Lady should not make enemies where there are none. There is dissent, yes,” Lucia nods, more to herself than him, “But there are also far more warriors who would fight <em>for </em>their High Lord and Lady, than against them.”</p><p class="p1">“Avoiding a fight entirely would be the best possible outcome,” Azriel admits to her.</p><p class="p1">She hums in agreement. “Yes. Maybe it’s better to speak with them, hear their concerns. Instead of playing a court game of it.”</p><p class="p1">For a second, Azriel wants to laugh. Genuinely laugh, at the joy of having someone else on his side. For all Rhys’s cunning and intelligence, it can sometimes go <em>too </em>far - and he forgets that there are simple ways to handle things. Azriel would never fight him on an order though, and only gives his opinion when asked for it, so they’ve yet to have a conversation about quelling this rebellion the simple way, rather than the political way.</p><p class="p1">“Or,” Lucia starts to say, pulling him out of his own head, “You three could just fistfight them all until they shut up.”</p><p class="p1">Azriel <em>does </em>laugh at that, quiet and low. He can’t say he’d mind it, stopping the dissent with a simple fist fight, rather than a war.</p><p class="p1">When he looks back up to meet Lucia’s eyes, she’s staring at him a little strangely. Her full lips pressed together over straight, white teeth. He notices then that she has scars on her cheek - from what, he can’t tell. But two thin, white lines run from her left eye down, across high cheekbones and towards a defined jaw. Her strong brow arches at him, as if to ask what he’s staring at.</p><p class="p1">“May I ask you a question now?”</p><p class="p1">Azriel shrugs in response, picking up his tea to sip it. She’s smart enough to know he won’t answer if it’s something he can’t tell.</p><p class="p1">“What do they feel like? The shadows?”</p><p class="p1">Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn’t that.</p><p class="p1">Azriel takes in a breath, takes in the breeze and the smell of autumn in Velaris, catches the vanilla cinnamon of the tea, and the scent of her: amber and fresh mountain air. Spice like chai. Sharp, like the air on top of a mountain. It overwhelms him for a moment, and he opens his mouth to answer her and finds that no words come out.</p><p class="p1">He doesn’t get to say anything anyway, because a breeze of lilac and pear stumbles across the spiced scents of the balcony, and out walks Feyre, grinning like a cat.</p><p class="p1">It’s beginning to disturb Azriel, how she’s adopted all of Rhys’s expressions.</p><p class="p1">“We’re going to dinner this evening, at Sevenda’s.” She announces. “All of us.”</p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm a HO for the acotar memes, if you couldnt tell by the stupid banter in this chapter. Enjoy!<br/>Also please not that Lucia and Azriel ARE endgame - but there has to be drama first!!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Cursing to himself as the clock strikes quarter to eight, Azriel pulls on a pair of nice trousers and a shirt, turning his siphons from their gauntlets to leather bracelets that rest on his wrists. It’s as nice as he’s going to get, considering this dinner is going to be a shit show.</p><p class="p1">Feyre nearly bodily dragged Nesta from her lair, instructing her that she was to come to dinner. Cassian had looked just as pleased as Azriel felt at the news. But, hopefully with a newcomer, Nesta will keep her attitude in check.</p><p class="p1">Azriel meets Rhys and Cassian down in the foyer, the former grumbling about having to spend time away from the Illyrian camps, from his duties, and dealing with Nesta - Rhys silences him with a well-timed glare as Feyre comes down the stairs with Lucia and Mor in tow. Where Azriel’s eyes may have once gone to Mor, now Lucia is all that he can see.</p><p class="p1">Mor still looks impeccable, no doubt - but Lucia…Lucia is understated next to Mor’s fire red dress. But then, everyone looks understated next to Mor. Lucia wears a black cocktail dress, cut high on her back to cover the scars that are healing, but makes up for the modest back with the plunging front of the dress, cut dangerously down the center of her breasts, even as the neckline reaches up to her collar. A whorl of Illyrian ink is visible in that space between her breasts, and Azriel tries not to let his eyes go right to it.</p><p class="p1">Actually, there’s a <em>lot </em>of Illyrian ink on her. Her arm is nearly covered, thin lines that twist and angle and reach all the way down to a thin wrist, over the veins in her inner arm. They run down the back of her other arm too, Azriel notices when she turns.</p><p class="p1">Never before have his hands itched so terribly to run across someone else’s skin, to trace those tattoos first with his hands and then his tongue.</p><p class="p1">He has to get a grip on himself.</p><p class="p1">Elain and Lucien appear moments later, the red-haired man smiling shyly at Elain as she takes his offered arm. Then, they start towards Sevenda’s.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">✴✴✴✴✴</p><p class="p1">When Nesta arrives, it goes about as well as expected. She takes the only seat left open next to Cassian, and everyone at the table seems to hold their breath. Her blue-gray eyes, so much like her sisters’ but sharper somehow, linger across all of them for a moment. Before landing right on Lucia.</p><p class="p1">Feyre had told her about Lucia, about how she came to stay with them, and instructed her firmly to <em>be kind, and don’t make an ass of yourself </em><b><em>or </em></b><em>me. </em></p><p class="p1">Nesta and Lucia hold each other’s gazes, gold against gray, and everyone else stops breathing.</p><p class="p1">A small smile quirks up at Nesta’s lips.</p><p class="p1">“Nice tattoo,” she says finally, nodding to the space between Lucia’s breasts where the Illyrian ink is, which Azriel now notices is an arrow slicing through a crescent moon. Illyrian ink, but a Night Court symbol, through and through.</p><p class="p1">Lucia’s eyes twinkle. “Nice lipstick,” she tells Nesta. Nesta, who indeed for the first time in months looks <em>nice, </em>like she maybe didn’t just put on the first thing in her closet and deign to make an appearance. The lipstick is a burnished pink color, dark against her light skin, but it is pretty.</p><p class="p1">Nesta’s smile cracks wide across her face, and the whole table lets out a breath.</p><p class="p1"><em>Start talking, </em>Rhys’s voice sounds in Azriel’s head, and Cassian must hear the command to, because he turns to Azriel and babbles something just to take the edge out of the air. Azriel gives him his full attention, realizing after a new moments that he’s begun speaking about training the girls at the Illyrian camps. He can feel Lucia listening intently, hanging onto every word even as she pretends to be occupied with accepting another glass of wine from Mor.</p><p class="p1">His shadows whisper in his ear. She’s looking at him.</p><p class="p1">He twitches, but doesn’t turn.</p><p class="p1">When the first course comes out, everyone seems to relax. Even Nesta, who stares at Elain as she talks, hands gesturing wildly about her newest project in the gardens at the estate. He’s usually the one listening to all her ideas, and he doesn’t mind one bit - next to Cassian and Rhys, Elain is his very best friend. Probably because she reminds him so much of his mother, with her kind demeanor and gentle voice and quiet excitement. Her newest idea for the garden is a section for every season - winter blooming plants, summer, fall and spring, so that all year a piece of the garden will be beautiful. Her winter garden, she’s telling Nesta, is coming along nicely, even as her fall one has begun to bloom with color. Azriel fights back a smile to himself, remembering Feyre’s delighted surprise when a group of landscapers showed up, lugging pine trees for said garden.</p><p class="p1">“Do you like to dance, Lucia?” Azriel hears Mor asking, and Cassian’s eyes flick over - so Azriel’s follow. Lucia is in the middle of biting a piece of honeyed bread, but stops when Mor asks the question. He sees her give a shy smile as she chews, accompanied by a nod. “Great! Come to Rita’s with us!”</p><p class="p1">“Yes!” Cassian says, turning towards Lucia with excitement in his face before directing it towards Nesta, who begins shaking her head.</p><p class="p1">“No, I’ll be going to bed. Don’t you ever get tired? You’re five hundred years old.”</p><p class="p1">“When you’re that old you just don’t get tired anymore, Nessie.” Cassian says.</p><p class="p1">“Don’t call me that.”</p><p class="p1">“Ness. Nessie. NeeNee.”</p><p class="p1">Beside Azriel, Lucia leans over, amusement bubbling up on her face. “Do they always do this?”</p><p class="p1">“Every single time they’re together,” Azriel tells her with a shake of his head.</p><p class="p1">“We’ll come!” Feyre announces, a hand on Rhys’s.</p><p class="p1">“Okay, but Rhys can’t get as drunk as he did last time.” Cassian says, pointing a finger at their High Lord, who has the decency to pretend to be outraged.</p><p class="p1">“I did not get that -“</p><p class="p1">“You flirted with Feyre,” Mor interrupts.</p><p class="p1">“She’s my mate.”</p><p class="p1">“You asked her if she was single, Rhysand.”</p><p class="p1">Feyre looks positively <em>delighted </em>to see her mate be the subject of this hilarious scrutiny by his cousin. “And then cried when I told you I was happily mated.” Feyre reminds him.</p><p class="p1">Rhys sighs, looking up at the sky to avoid looking at them and probably to avoid looking at the shit-eating grin on Cassian’s face. “A temporary lapse in memory.”</p><p class="p1">“So, no more straight gin for you this evening,” Mor continues, taking a dainty sip of her wine.</p><p class="p1">Beside him, Azriel feels - rather than sees - that Lucia is smiling. He feels it because his shadows seem attuned to her, to watching her every move, and the little spark of joy that floods off of her, they seem to catch and respond to. He tries to reel himself in, but it’s difficult. Every part of him is drawn to her.</p><p class="p1">“Once,” Feyre begins to say, wiping her mouth on a napkin as Rhys’s eyes shoot to his mate and give a warning look.</p><p class="p1">“<em>Do not,” </em>Rhys growls, and Feyre blushes - but the wicked glint only gets deeper.</p><p class="p1">“Fine, I’ll tell a story at Cassian’s expense, then. Lucia, have you ever been to the Summer Court?”</p><p class="p1">Cassian groans.</p><p class="p1">It all goes downhill from there.</p><p class="p1">Well, not <em>downhill, </em>per say - but it certainly earns them a few looks from other patrons in the restaurant at the volume of laughter.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">✴✴✴✴✴</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">By the time dinner is done and Cassian, Azriel, and Lucien are all silently scheming a way to pay the bill together without Rhys noticing, Mor and Lucia are both bordering on drunk and have their heads bent together. Azriel watches them out of the corner of his eye, earning a stomp on his toes from Cassian.</p><p class="p1">“What are you staring at?” He hisses, and Azriel nearly grabs him by the throat just to get him to back off, away from his neck. Cassian always gets a tad bit too close when he’s drunk - it’s nothing new.</p><p class="p1">“Nothing,” Azriel hisses back, shrugging his shoulder in an attempt to be nonchalant.</p><p class="p1">Cassian chuckles roughly. “Listen, brother,” he says, “I’ve known you for five centuries, and there’s only been approximately <em>three </em>females that I’ve seen you look at like that.”</p><p class="p1">“What do you think they’re talking about?” Azriel asks as they begin to walk, headed in the direction of Rita’s. Mor’s arm is linked through Lucia’s, her other hand reaching up to brush a strand of dark hair from Lucia’s cheek. It’s tender, almost…flirty.</p><p class="p1">Cassian sighs, probably annoyed that Azriel has ignored his initial question. “Want my honest answer?” He asks.</p><p class="p1">Azriel nods.</p><p class="p1">“I think Mor is trying to convince Lucia to go to bed with her.”</p><p class="p1">Ever since Mor came out, in the days before she left for the continent after Solstice last year, Azriel had a shockingly easy time putting the pieces together. It all <em>made sense - </em>between the time she spent at Rita’s, to her withdrawing from Azriel and Cassian, to the spat she’d had with Feyre over him…yeah, it had been easy enough to understand. And he wasn’t lying to himself when he realized that he sort of suspected it, knew there was more to it when she shunned all of his advances over the years.</p><p class="p1">There was a little bit of relief, to know that it wasn’t <em>him. </em>He’s always felt unworthy of her, of <em>anyone, </em>really. But it had been…almost nice to know that there was nothing he could do about it. She’d disappeared to the continent then without so much as letting them all get a word in, but when she’d returned, they’d had a long talk about it. All of them, individually. Azriel and Mor, mostly, but all of them.</p><p class="p1">Rhys was annoyed the first few days, kicking himself for not noticing and feeling even worse that his cousin felt the need to keep it from him. Feyre calmed that storm - calmed everyone about it, actually. Azriel had spent the time beating himself up, until he’d come to terms with it. Then it became easier and easier, and he’d let it go, like a breath of air.</p><p class="p1">It had felt good.</p><p class="p1">And now, looking at Mor as she stares at Lucia with that little look in her eye, Azriel feels something…<em>strange. </em></p><p class="p1">Something possessive, and for once, it’s not directed towards Mor.</p><p class="p1">“Think she’s gonna say yes?” Azriel realizes that Cassian is still waiting for a response to his earlier comment. He only shrugs.</p><p class="p1">It’s been a week since she came to the river house, and she’s healing - in more ways than one. He wouldn’t be necessarily surprised either way.</p><p class="p1">They reach Rita’s, the sounds of night and music and partying in full swing as Mor drags Lucia to the front door and is promptly waved in by a bouncer with short-cropped hair and tattooed arms. She leads them back to their usual booth, Azriel taking care to tuck his wings into his body as they go for fear of knocking them against someone or something.</p><p class="p1">Cassian is notorious at Rita’s for knocking drinks out of people’s hands and accidentally thwacking Mor with his wings. Nesta looks grumpy at having been conned into coming, but Elain’s arm stays linked through her sister’s and as they take their seats, Nesta begins to look just slightly less annoyed. Slightly.</p><p class="p1">Azriel slides into the round booth next to Lucien, watching as Cassian gets dragged onto the dance floor by Mor. Lucia sits down moments later, a glass of something bubbly in her hand, careful of Azriel’s wings as she slides in next to him. Rhys returns with a tray of drinks from the bar, shooting each of their usual alcoholic choices across the table towards them. Lucien is fond of sticking with wine; Elain goes for anything that’s fruity and tastes like flowers; Nesta goes for straight white liquor; Rhys and Feyre tend to opt for anything flavored with whiskey. Cassian drinks anything. Mor like bubbling champagne, the kind that Lucia is drinking. And Azriel accepts the straight bourbon that Rhys sets down in front of him with a grateful nod.</p><p class="p1">Rhys always stays at the end of their booth, chatting with anyone who comes up to speak with him and Feyre. A year ago, maybe <em>two </em>by now, Azriel and Feyre had sat with each other and watched their friends dance, making bets on who would invite Rhys home - and he’d won every round. He refrained from telling her that that’s because he’d basically been cheating: his shadows were reading them like open books.</p><p class="p1">Just like they’re reading everyone now - nearly every bar patron who appears to chat with Rhys and Feyre is scheming a way to be invited to the High Lord and High Lady’s bed. It varies, who exactly they’re hoping to be with. Feyre has more admirers than Azriel thinks she’d probably be comfortable knowing.</p><p class="p1">Out of the corner of his eye, Azriel watches Cassian and Nesta bicker, the former trying her best to ignore how close Cassian is getting to her each time he says something. Azriel keeps a clamp on his shadows even as they go to skitter across the table, trying to find out what exactly Cassian is saying that is making Nesta blush like that.</p><p class="p1">“They’re mates, aren’t they,” a soft voice says from beside him, and Azriel turns to find Lucia leaning closer, her eyes flicking from Cassian and Nesta and then back up to him. Azriel clears his throat, disturbed by the fact that he didn’t realize she’d gotten so close.</p><p class="p1">“That’s the general guess,” he admits, gesturing to the rest of his friends at the table. They’ve all placed running bets on how long it will take the Illryian and eldest Archeron sister to admit it - both to themselves, but more importantly everyone else.</p><p class="p1">Beside him, Lucia hums, and Azriel watches out of the corner of his eye as she takes a sip of her drink with narrowed golden eyes. “What do those shadows tell you?” She asks then, studying the swirling black tendrils as they twist in response to her words.</p><p class="p1"><em>Tell her, </em>they whisper, <em>Tell her what you can scent on her, what the sight of her eyes does to you - </em></p><p class="p1">Azriel shuts out the shadowy voice and gives her a one shouldered shrug, looking for something a little easier to explain. “They tell me,” he starts quietly, eyes narrowing at Rhys and Feyre and the fae with lilac-colored skin that they’re speaking to, who twirls her matching hair around one finger before flicking it behind her. Feyre’s eyes follow the movement. “That fae, speaking to Feyre and Rhys,” Azriel nods his head, “Is wondering if Feyre’s moans are as pretty as her laugh.”</p><p class="p1">Lucia jolts a little bit, covering her mouth with her hand to keep from laughing out the sip of the drink that she’s just taken. “Mother above,” she mutters, chuckling to herself as she brushes a hand along her dark hair. “So they let you…read minds?”</p><p class="p1">There’s a glint in her eye as she looks at him, almost like excitement. Azriel tilts his head. “Of a sort,” he tells her. “They let me hear and feel things that others can’t.”</p><p class="p1">“Are they tangible?” Lucia asks, fingers flicking on her glass as if she wants to reach out and feel them, or at the very least ask him what they feel like. It’s a continuation of the question she’d asked on the balcony this morning, when he’d been unable to answer her. He opens his mouth to respond, but Mor slides into the seat next to her and demands her attention.</p><p class="p1">Slowly, Lucia’s eyes slide away from Azriel and over to Mor, and he feels colder when her gaze leaves him, like that golden color is imbued entirely with the heat of the sun. Azriel turns back to watching his friends, but his shadows find elsewhere more interesting.</p><p class="p1">He barely has enough control to stop them from sliding along Lucia’s back as it’s turned towards him, from sliding through the tendrils of her hair.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Wonder if I should just ask her - </em>
</p><p class="p1">That’s Mor’s voice.</p><p class="p1">Azriel’s gaze flicks over.</p><p class="p1">Mor has a thin finger curled through a strand of Lucia’s hair, her hand sliding up as if she wants to place it against Lucia’s face. He doesn’t have to look closely to know that Mor’s eyes are traveling down to Lucia’s full lips.</p><p class="p1">A prick against his mind has him tilting his gaze over to Feyre, feeling her gentle power tapping along the walls of his shadowy shields. He cracks them open to let her in.</p><p class="p1"><em>What is with you? </em>She asks him, raising a thin eyebrow. <em>You can’t take your eyes off of her. Either ask to join them, or leave them be. </em></p><p class="p1">Her voice is in his head is amused, but Azriel feels color blooming on his cheeks as he sends the tendril of a shadow shooting across the table to poke at Feyre’s hair. Her laugh is tinkling and sweet.</p><p class="p1">When he glances over, Mor and Lucia have disappeared.</p>
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